Burn (Pure #3)(53)

“It’s so pretty! Catch it for me, Partridge! Catch it!”

“People catch butterflies, Iralene. They don’t catch birds.”

“But you can! For me!”

“No, I can’t actually catch a bird.” He walks away from the swing and over to Beckley. “Tell me what’s going on with the older academy boys.”

Beckley won’t look at him. “I’m not allowed.”

“Do I have to make it an order?”

Beckley nods. “Yep, you do.”

“Then tell me, damn it—that’s an order.”

“I only overheard this, so I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

“What?”

“Foresteed’s attacking. He’s taken all the boys sixteen and up and started massive coding. Some are already out there, having joined Special Forces on the outside. Others are being geared up.”

“Who’s he attacking?”

“Wretches.”

Partridge feels like his head could explode. He presses the heel of his hand against his temple. “Why? For the love of God…”

Beckley shrugs. “There’s an airship that was stolen, and he had to start to neutralize the situation before a serious threat could be…” The airship that Pressia, Bradwell, and El Capitan and Helmud stole—but still, an attack makes no sense!

They crossed the Atlantic. Weed told Partridge that Foresteed didn’t care about Pressia and the airship.

“He can’t attack! He doesn’t have the authority!”

“He leads the military, and since you’ve been preoccupied…”

“I’m not preoccupied! Damn it. You think I want to be at memorial services and photo shoots?” He thinks of Pressia, Bradwell, and El Capitan and Helmud. They can’t come back to an attack from the Dome. He needs them—in one piece, alive.

“Radio ahead. I want a meeting with Foresteed ASAP.”

“Partridge!” Iralene calls out. “I need another push.” The swing is still. Her dress, no longer gusting, looks like a wilted flower.

“They got enough pictures. I’ve got to go, Iralene. Sorry.” He walks off quickly. Beckley is at his side.

Iralene calls out, “No, Partridge! The bird! Come and catch the bird for me! It’s a lovebird!”

Was the lovebird planted there? Did someone actually expect him to catch it for her and give it as a gift?

“It’s going to die out here,” Partridge says. “It needs to be taken back to the aviary.”

Iralene cries out, “Oh no!”

He glances back and sees the bird flapping into what would be the sky.





LYDA





SECOND SKIN




Lyda set the orb so that the living room looks like part of a suburban ranch house, pre-Detonations—she would never share her ashen world with anyone but Partridge. She hasn’t seen him since their meeting with Foresteed where she gave Partridge permission to marry Iralene—or did she urge him? And if she’d said no, would it have actually mattered to a man like Foresteed? Looking back, she thinks they were meant to wander the room, and she was meant to find her psychological evaluation. In retrospect, it was a silent threat—lifelong institutionalization.

Now she’s in the care of a woman named Chandry, who is unloading a tote full of yarn balls and knitting needles. “So what would you like to start with? Booties? A baby hat? A blankie?”

“Can I ask who sent you?” Lyda says, trying to sound sweet.

“Oh, it’s my duty! I’m in charge of preparing you for your little bundle’s arrival.” She pats Lyda’s knee. “Plus, it’s soothing to knit. Knit your troubles away!” she chirps. “I have friends who are truly shattered by the recent events, but not me! Not with knitting on my side!”

She either means Partridge’s speech about the truth or the suicides or both. “Recent events?” Lyda says, playing dumb.

“You know,” Chandry says. “You of all people…”

Lyda, of all people. She wonders if Chandry blames her somehow.

Chandry starts to knit while giving a play-by-play of her quick work. Lyda interrupts, “What’s wrong with shattered? Sometimes it’s the right way to feel.”

This flusters Chandry, but she keeps stitching. She wouldn’t want to undermine her own arguments about the soothing powers of knitting. “Not for me!” she says, and she continues on, telling Lyda how to hold the needles. She gives her a little practice piece Chandry started for her at home. She seems oblivious to the fact that Lyda learned how to knit at the academy. All the girls did. But Lyda doesn’t tell Chandry. She pretends to be a terrible student. It’s not that she’s against swaddling her baby in handmade blankets; it’s that she doesn’t want to be soothed—not by anything.

“I’m also giving you a Baby’s Own baby book. You can start writing in it to log the joys of your baby—starting from the womb!”

“The joys.”

“Yes! The joys! Cute stories. You know…maybe you crave strawberry milkshakes! You could write that down in the journal. These are things your child will one day want to know about their fetal experience!”